


Coping Mechanism

by White Queen Writes (fhartz91)



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Non-Explicit Sex, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-27
Updated: 2019-08-27
Packaged: 2020-09-28 04:33:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20419967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fhartz91/pseuds/White%20Queen%20Writes
Summary: After they get married, Crowley and Aziraphale discover that an angel marrying a demon comes with some difficult and heartbreaking side effects.





	Coping Mechanism

“Good morning, my dear,” Aziraphale says, greeting his demon before he’s even fully in the room. He felt him when he woke up this morning, knew his approach without needing to hear his feet shuffling across the floor. “How did you sleep?”

Crowley merely grunts as he enters the veranda where his angel is cheerfully engaged in misting his plants. They look better than Crowley has ever seen them – lusher and greener now that Aziraphale has snagged the reins and begun taking care of them. They even perk up when Aziraphale walks into the room. But Crowley isn’t about to admit it. Watching them thrive under Aziraphale’s care hits his pride hard.

_The ungrateful buggers. _

They don’t even tremble in fear when Crowley comes near them anymore.

They know that as long as Aziraphale is around, the angel won’t let him hurt them.

And if they ever break up, Satan forbid, Aziraphale would surely get custody.

“There,” he says, giving a spider plant a little extra love, “how do they look then? Are they growing to your standards?”

“Meh. They look all right, I guess.” Crowley comes up behind his husband and puts his arms around his waist. Aziraphale leans back against him, hums contentedly at his husband’s touch.

“Just all right, hmm?”

“Mmm … maybe better than all right. But only a little.”

“High praise indeed.”

“Don’t’ch know it?”

“I was about to get breakfast on.” Aziraphale puts down the mister to layer his arms over Crowley’s and tighten his embrace. “Are you hungry?”

“Nah. Not yet. Uh …” Crowley clears his throat uncomfortably “… you go ahead. I’ll be along in a minute.”

Aziraphale sighs. “Of course, my dear. Whatever you want.”

“I … I don’t need to.”

Aziraphale pats his husband’s arm. He means it as a comfort. It comes off as condescending. “It’s alright. You haven’t in a while. I know it must be difficult sometimes.”

Crowley hooks his chin over Aziraphale’s shoulder and shakes his head. “No. I’m willing to wait.”

“It’s up to you. But you forget, I hear you talk in your sleep. I know what you’re thinking. I don’t want things to change. I don’t want … _you_ to change.”

Crowley swallows hard. The truth is always the most difficult pill to swallow. “All right. I won’t take long. I promise.”

Aziraphale tilts his head, kisses his husband on the cheek. “I’ll get breakfast started. You do what you need to do.” He breaks from his husband’s embrace slowly, in parts, fingertips tracing down the length of Crowley’s arm as long as possible before he walks off towards the kitchen. Crowley looks at the mister on the table, and at the peace lily sitting beside it. He looks at the beauty surrounding him in this room. Many of the plants around him are new acquisitions – ones Aziraphale brought with him when he moved in and introduced himself to Crowley’s precious collection.

But the way Aziraphale went about adding new members to the fold baffled (and admittedly _angered_) Crowley. Aziraphale didn’t go searching out the largest, fullest, or most beautiful plants available. He got his plants from the clearance section, from the near dead rack.

From Crowley’s mulch heap outside.

He nursed them and sang to them, talked to them and complimented them. These plants, some of them only twigs stuck into pots of dry, grey earth when they were brought through the door, thrive now, and it’s all because of Aziraphale. He brings things to life.

He inspires humanity.

And one demon.

Aziraphale’s relationship with their plants and his relationship with Crowley mirror one another a great deal.

Aziraphale gives all to where he loves, even if it chips away at him.

“I love you,” Crowley says, hoping to catch his angel before he’s out of ear shot.

Aziraphale stops walking. Then Crowley hears him smile.

“I love you, too.”

Crowley waits until Aziraphale leaves, then heads down the hall himself, branching off back to the bedroom. He shuts the door behind him, closes the curtains, and sits down on the bed. He closes his eyes, focusing on the things he wants to do today, reaching out with his mind in the hopes of finding some minor temptation he can accomplish without leaving this room, something simple to take his mind off things.

But there’s nothing.

And his brain is a mess. His body, too. His hands have started shaking again, his legs restless, his wings shifting beneath his skin, eager to break loose from their prison of flesh and spread wide. Every inch of him reeks of power, simmering and pulsating, yearning to bleed free. A breeze passes over his body, making him shiver, and that agitates him more, sparks flying from his fingertips. But before he gathers back enough mental capacity to realize that a breeze shouldn’t be possible in this airtight room, something climbs on top of him, weighs down over him.

And a warm, familiar mouth covers his own.

“Aziraphale!” Crowley yelps, pulling away. “You can’t just … you shouldn’t be here right now!”

Aziraphale smiles – innocence and mischief swirling together in one intoxicating concoction. “Sorry, I … I just couldn’t wait!” He loops his arms around Crowley’s neck and kisses him – urgent and naively sweet.

And Crowley kisses him back, even though he knows he shouldn’t. This isn’t the right time. Not now. Not when he’s like this – vibrating with energy, on the verge of ripping through his own skin.

“Aziraphale … darling … this probably isn’t a good idea.”

Aziraphale giggles. “Sometimes the best ideas aren’t necessarily _good_ ideas.”

“There’s logic in there somewhere. I just don’t know …”

“Shhh, my dear. Talk less. Kiss more.”

Crowley grins, too caught up in his own power to say no to this delectable sin. He’s a demon! He can’t be expected to kick a sin out of bed. “Your wish is my command, angel.”

Crowley lurches up, kisses him roughly, and Aziraphale’s squeak of surprise and his smile against Crowley’s lips become everything. Crowley manages to flip him over, lay on top of him, press him into the mattress with his hands over his head - a throwback to a day when, out of anger, he’d slammed Aziraphale up against a wall.

It wasn’t a hard slam. More like a forceful relocation. But it was also a revelation.

That was a light bulb moment for him.

He’d grabbed Aziraphale’s coat, shoved him hard, pinned him and yelled at him, berated him for having the audacity to call him _nice_. But not for a single second did Aziraphale look afraid.

There was a time when, even knowing about all of the battles Aziraphale helped fight and win throughout history, he thought of his angel as lesser, weaker, simply because he was a messenger of love. Crowley saw kindness as a weakness, so to be called kind, in his mind, was to be called weak.

But looking back on that moment, remembering how it felt, he realizes Aziraphale wasn’t weak at all. He was restrained. Not by the knowledge that he could fend Crowley off, but by the trust that he wouldn’t need to.

The more Crowley railed on, the more Crowley yelled, the softer Aziraphale got, facing down his anger without even flinching until they were rudely interrupted. Then, with one subtle glance at Aziraphale’s face, Crowley realized that that entire time, Aziraphale had been staring at his lips.

Possibly wishing that Crowley would kiss him.

That one detail, regardless of all the temptations he’d done, none of which had ever given him so much as a tingle, was the biggest turn on of his existence.

“If you’re granting wishes, maybe you can grant another one?”

“That depends,” Crowley says, kissing around the contours of Aziraphale’s mouth while he speaks. “What is it you’re wishing for?”

“Show me something new?”

“Oh … well, you and I, we’ve both been on this planet the same amount of time. I’m not sure there’s anything you don’t know that I can show you.”

“Maybe I’m not making myself clear,” Aziraphale says, looking deep into Crowley’s eyes. “Maybe there’s something that _you_, a demon specifically, can show me.”

Crowley’s breath catches. There are dangerous connotations wrapped up in that request, things he doesn’t have the wherewithal to resist. He stares up at his angel with pleading eyes. “I … I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Don’t worry,” Aziraphale whispers. “You won’t. And if you do … I’ll forgive you. It’s all right …” Aziraphale layers kisses across Crowley’s forehead. “I’m here to help you.”

Crowley nods. “Where would you like me to begin?” he asks, his voice beginning to shake as he struggles to keep the Evil within him at bay. He’s not going to taint this act with dark power, not going to let it overwhelm him.

Not going to let it get at his angel.

“Why don’t you undress me?” Aziraphale suggests. “But carefully. I’d rather not have us miracling this outfit back together from shreds when we’re through.”

Still hesitant, Crowley starts with Aziraphale’s shirt, trembling fingers undoing stubborn buttons as he leans forward to kiss his angel on the mouth. Aziraphale’s fingertips brush Crowley’s skin and send his brain reeling, everything after that first touch a whirlwind of clothes and kisses and moans and prepping; begging and _please_ and _there!_ and _yes!_ and _faster!_, until Crowley has switched their places again, splayed out on his back on the bed, stretched out like a snake, with Aziraphale panting above him, moving up and down with the fluidity of liquid silver, head thrown back, mumbling softly spoken words of pleasure and devotion.

Crowley loves this - watching his angel ride him, loves his body, his pale skin, the subtle glow that surrounds him the more excited he becomes.

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale cries in a choked off rendition of his usual melodic voice that’s simply too … well, he has to face it – Heavenly to be real.

And Crowley wishes it was. _Dear God_, he wishes it was.

But it’s not.

It’s a temptation, one he’s cast on himself, putting lust into his own mind so he can have this. So that he can ward off something more sinister.

Like taking up smoking to stave off an addiction to cocaine.

Right before he has a chance to finish, on the edge of ecstasy with no turning back, he stops himself, grinds his teeth and bites his tongue, digs his nails into his skin to dull the pleasure.

He doesn’t want his first physical experience of completion to be with this fantasy, even if that fantasy is Aziraphale. He wants his angel – his flesh and blood angel, his heat and his taste and his voice and his softness. But until they can figure out a way around the possibility of him falling, or they can devise a way to control Crowley’s demon urges, this will have to do.

And the more he indulges, the emptier he feels inside.

As he prepares to leave the bedroom and go to the kitchen in search of his husband, he abandons everything. He takes a quick shower, washes his hair, changes his clothes, and brushes his teeth. For demons, all this is unnecessary, but for Crowley, it’s a ritual - a symbolic way to cleanse himself of what he’s just done, so he can feel worthy to be in Aziraphale’s presence again.

He adds other small touches to his usual look as a subtle nod to his husband, to prove how committed he is to their life together. He’s long since exchanged his blood red collars for his husband’s tartan ones, gone back to simpler sunglasses with small, round lenses that complement the ones Aziraphale wears, and splashes on a dash of his husband’s favorite cologne. He strides into the kitchen, much more awake but guiltier now than before when making love to Aziraphale was simply a dream.

This feels too much like cheating.

“My, my, don’t you look chipper,” Aziraphale says with a pleasantness that sounds forced. “And right on time. Are you ready to eat?”

“Yeah,” Crowley lies. He’s lost his appetite, but he needs to do something to occupy his mind aside from staring longingly at his husband, cursing the fact that the time he’d just spent couldn’t be with him. “Absolutely ready. Smells great.”

Aziraphale’s smile becomes fixed and tight. “So, how was I, hmm?” he asks, bitter, but not at Crowley. At _life_. Because they can’t share physical intimacy together. They can’t make love.

And the way things are going, they may never.

Aziraphale didn’t mind at first until Crowley started doing this. It’s not the act itself that spears him.

It’s how much Crowley _craves_ it.

But it’s a necessary Evil if they want to stay together, a solution Crowley came up with when they discovered that a demon marrying an angel came with a bizarre side-effect, one no one could have predicted since this type of union, up till now, had been unprecedented.

Making their marriage official, having the gall to marry _under God_, made Crowley hungry to corrupt his husband to the point where the demon within him in its true form would often times fight tooth and nail to burst out of his skin.

It was a test, Aziraphale said. It was God testing their love for one another. Their loyalty. He thinks it will pass.

It’s been close to a decade now, and it hasn’t.

So Crowley devised this - to take the edge off, he’d said. To push the temptation away.

To keep Aziraphale safe.

“Amazing, as always,” Crowley says, wrapping his angel up in his arms. Aziraphale melts against him, into his heat and his thrumming joy … his sharp regret. “But it’ll never compare to the real thing.”


End file.
